


Dear Diary

by SatsunonSavior



Category: Kill la Kill
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Awkward Romance, BDSM, Begging, Bondage, Dom!Satsuki, Dominatrix, Easymode, Etiquette lessons, F/F, Financial Domination, Flogging, Foot Fetish, Masochism, Massage, Masturbation, Not Incest, Orgasm, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgasm Denial, POV First Person, Pain, Painplay, Porn With Plot, Pro-Domme, Prostitution, Risk Aware Consensual Kink, Romance, Sadism, Safe Sane and Consensual, Safewords, Scent Kink, Sex Work, Smut, Spanking, Sub!Ryuko, Unrelated Satsuki/Ryuuko
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-20
Packaged: 2018-06-09 12:34:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6907453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SatsunonSavior/pseuds/SatsunonSavior
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern day AU (No Incest)- Satsuki is an heiress turned Pro-Domme, and Ryuko is a broke-ass, college-going client.<br/>Sparks fly, Ryuko gets flogged a lot, and everything turns out okay in the end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dear Diary

Dear Diary, I have a problem.

I’m addicted to dominant women.

Well. _A_ dominant woman. One _utterly_ dominant woman in particular.

 

And people say- ‘well Ryuko, what’s the harm in that?’

‘It’s the twenty-first century, right? Who cares if you like girls or guys or hell, even both?’

‘Who cares if you’re a little kinky? Go grab your girlfriend and have fun!’

 

Well, that’s the big-ass fucking problem. She’s not my girlfriend.

Though as far as I know, she’s not anyone else’s girlfriend either.

She’s a domme. I mean…professionally.

 

You see my problem? No?

 

She’s the reason I’m standing outside a small, blank faced door in a seedy part of town, trying to work up the courage to press the intercom button. She’s the reason that I’m carrying a good chunk of cash that I should be saving for rent money, emergencies, or hell- tonight’s dinner. She’s the reason I’ve been living on dried ramen all month, and working forty hour weeks at some no-name fucking convenience store run by an old pervert who spent the entire interview staring at my tits.

Her name is Satsuki. This is a first name only business, but that won’t be what I’m calling her today.

She likes to be called _‘Mistress’_.

I like it too.

 

Why is this a problem you ask?

Aside from the fact that I’m wasting my life and all my disposable income on her?

Aside from the fact that this will be my fourth visit to her in two months?

Well…I don’t know if you know this, but a domme is _not_ a hooker. She’s not an escort either.

If I press that intercom, a lot of interesting and extremely amazing things are going to happen to me.

I’m just not going to get fucked. I probably won’t be getting off, either.

I’m going to _willingly_ pay this gorgeous, sexy, intelligent woman the equivalent of about four-hundred dollars so that she’ll beat me, humiliate me, and insult me for about an hour.

And if I do something stupid like ask her out for coffee, she’ll never see me again.

 _Now_ do you see my problem?

 

I press the intercom. My hand is shaking, and it takes me three attempts to hit the button. The grill above my finger crackles quietly. A woman’s voice murmurs out, and my body reacts in an almost primal way to the gentle rhythm of it.

“Ryuko?” she asks, her tone light. That’s all she knows me by. I’m sure some people use a fake name when they come by, but I never have. I wouldn’t trade the way her lips caress my name for _anything_.

“Yeah,” I manage to rasp, “It’s me.”

“And what is your word, Ryuko?” her voice asks. This is the second part of the confirmation- my safe word. The proof that it’s really me, not to mention a handy tool to remind myself.

“ _Senketsu_.”

There is a moment’s silence and then the door buzzes shrilly, and I push it open, feeling the click of the lock as I draw it closed behind me.

 

I step into the…changing room, I guess, and look around. It’s empty, as always; it looks like a cross between a reception area, a lounge, and a locker room. It’s decorated fancily, and makes me feel nervous and awkward- like when you go to a fancy restaurant or a really nice house and try not to touch anything? I feel like I don’t fit in here, don’t belong here.

I’m sure most of her clients must be rich old men, or middle aged salarymen with more money than sense. The sort of men who pay to be abused by a woman they could never possess.

_Not like I can talk._

My hands work automatically while I’m thinking all this, dropping my bag by my feet and pulling my t-shirt up over my head, tossing it onto a chair. The skirt is next, my fingers struggling at the old zip that catches a couple of times despite only having to travel about four inches. I really need to replace it, but that would mean not being here, and that’s a sacrifice I’m not willing to make. The skirt drops to the floor in a heap and I step out of it, flicking it up with my foot and tossing it on top of the shirt. I bend to one knee to unbutton the laces on my boots and peel out of them. It’s slightly cool in here, and already I can feel little shivers not _solely_ from the cold begin to tug at my shoulders and back. Shoes and socks get sat at the base of the chair in a neat row.

I stand up and run a hand through my hair nervously, looking around even though there’s no one here and nobody watching. Then I strip off with unseemly haste, unclipping my bra and throwing it onto my pile of clothes, and ducking down to ram my underwear down my hips and off. Stripping like this is so fucking embarrassing, but those are the rules. And I follow the rules. The underwear gets wadded up and thrown into my shirt, and I try not to think about its condition. I should start bringing spares.

The last step is for me to check my ‘locker’. One wall is filled with small, waist high filing cabinets. Each drawer has a little lock and a name on it. I fish the key out of my bag and go quickly to my drawer. I turn the key and pull the drawer out, holding my breath. I see the contents and sigh softly, my body going through a long, full body shudder. The drawer is empty, save for a single object-

A black collar, made of some kind of faux-leather, sized to my neck. A thin piece of metal maybe two inches across sits at the front of the collar, a message in bold letters embossed on it.

It says, ‘ _Pig.’_

I pick it up with shaking hands, and wrap it carefully around my neck, treating it better than anything else I’ve ever worn. Once there was a costume in the drawer, waiting for me. Once, after I spoke out in the last session, there was a ball-gag. But there has always been this collar, ever since the first time I came in, sure that this whole ‘Pro-domme’ thing was illegal and that I was three seconds from getting busted in some kind of pervert sting by the cops.

I carefully slide the strap through the loop and fix the collar tightly around my neck. Its weight is half humiliating, half reassuring, and I start to breathe faster in simple reaction. I close the drawer and drop the key into my bag. Remembrance strikes me, and I slip my rings and bracelet off too. No jewelry. I check to make sure, but I didn’t put earrings on today. Unnerved, I check myself from head to toe, running through a mental checklist.

 _Hair?_ Messy but clean.

 _Clothes?_ Off.

 _Jewelry?_ Off.

 _Collar?_ Sitting around my neck like a millstone.

 _Body?_ Showered, skinny, slightly muscled and so _totally_ ready for this.

 

I pick up my little unsealed envelope of cash, step up to the door that divides the reception room and the…play space, and knock briskly.

The woman’s voice is a narcotic to my senses, and I bite down on my lip to keep my libido under control as she speaks.

“Come,” she says softly, her lips caressing the word.

 _I fucking wish,_ I think, somewhat uncharitably. Oh well, nothing for it. Here goes-

I open the door and step inside, my eyes lowered.

 

I’m greeted first by warmth- the difference between this room and the other palpable both against my skin and in the gentle heat of the tatami mat against the soles of my feet. The gentle scents of lilac and chamomile make themselves known to me from the scented candles that burn in little dishes on a long wooden table that probably costs more than my car. The room is spacious but well decorated with an eclectic mix of furniture. An office desk sits in one corner, while a high backed chair with a red velvet lining shares space with a leather couch the color of deep, dark blood. There’s a genuine _chaise longue,_ one of those fancy lounging chairs, a couple of what look like bar stools drawn up to the table’s edge, and even an old dentist’s or barber’s chair facing the corner, a dust sheet half draped over it. There are…other pieces of furniture too- ones that make my throat feel dry and the collar around my neck heavy.

_Ropes that hang from the ceiling to one side, coming down to end in a stainless steel hook._

_A huge diagonal cross that sits against the far wall, its arms well-equipped with strong looking leather cuffs and restraints._

_A flagellary arrayed along one wall- a collection of paddles, whips, canes and other implements of…correction._

_A trio of dressing mannequins, each outfitted with different tools of sensory deprivation, arranged roughly from simple blindfolds and ball gags on the left, to a full faced black monster of a latex hood that looks as if it would block out four senses in one go._

“Ryuko?” Satsuki’s voice prompts, in the sort of tone that means it’s not the first time she’s said it. I gasp and turn to face her, my head still lowered so that all I can see is the space between us.

“S-Shit, I’m sorry, I was-” I babble, well aware even as I say it that I’m not supposed to make excuses or swear in front of her. She lets me trail off into an embarrassed silence before she speaks again.

“I know you find them very enticing, but you can’t spend all day looking at my spanking gear,” she says wryly, in a superior, intensely irritating tone, “Really, I give you a few simple rules to follow and what do I get? Hopeless, truly hopeless.”

I flush suddenly, all the heat in my body heading right up to my cheeks. I can’t help it, this always happens. Outside of this little room, I’m a tough, no-nonsense, kick-ass tomboy. I do what I like, when I like, and I kick fucking ass at it because that’s who I am.

In here, I make nothing but mistakes. In here I’m not tough, or kick-ass. I feel like a fucking _klutz_.

I shut the door behind me, and have to swallow before I can even speak.

“I’m sorry, Mistress.”

“Of course you are, pig,” she says, disbelief evident in her voice, “I mean look at you. I’ve seldom seen someone sorrier.”

“I’m really very sorry, Mistress, it won’t happen again!” I say, desperate for her to forgive me, even if I don’t know why. After a long silence, she lets out a sigh and shakes her head wearily, though I can’t see the last part. I know she’s doing it though. I’m more familiar with her nonverbal cues than I am with my own.

“It had better not. Now, I believe someone has a routine to follow?” she prompts acidly.

I nod my head again in a deep bow.

_Right. The routine. You moron._

I make my way across the room towards her on unsteady legs, trying to walk like a lady with neat, even steps, instead of the tomboy stride-cum-swagger that I normally use. I don’t notice these things, but she points them out to me. She enjoys giving me these impromptu etiquette lessons, tearing me down and humiliating me, molding me into whatever shape _she_ desires. Evidently I manage not to make a fool of myself as I stop about three feet before her and sink down onto my knees, trying my best to make the motion smooth and graceful. The tatami rustles gently as I settle my weight down on it, and I try to recall the proper placement of my feet as I shuffle into what I desperately hope is a _seiza_ position. I wait, head bowed, hands holding the envelope loosely atop my lap, not even daring to breathe.

 

“Good,” Satsuki’s voice is one of grudging acknowledgement, and my heart leaps. Her fingertips slide gracefully through my hair, making me shiver, until they become a firm little pressure at the top of my head, “And now all the way down.”

I grit my teeth and let out a slow, hissing breath. This is difficult enough to perform to Satsuki’s exacting standards, but I’m holding something in my hands in offering, which makes the gesture even more complicated. I draw in my breath once more and lean forwards slightly, pressing my hands to the floor in front of me, bringing Satsuki’s elegant heels into view. I keep the envelope in both hands, pinning each corner of it between thumb and forefinger, and then slowly lower my head to the ground. I don’t stop until I feel both a slight twinge in my back and the soft texture of the tatami against my forehead.

Satsuki’s mocking little laugh sets my cheeks burning again as she examines me critically.

“And what is this position called, pig?” she asks, all the chiding disappointment of a schoolmarm and all the humiliating scorn of a dominatrix combining in her voice.

“ _Dogeza._ ” I mumble into the floor mat. It’s not something you forget. Satsuki nods.

“Mhmm. And when do we do _dogeza?_ ” she asks, her tone sadistically amused.

“When…” I hesitate, “When we make an offering to the gods, or to someone of high station.”

“And?” Satsuki says, her tone impatient.

“And when making a formal apology!” I add, the words springing into mind. I hear her clap sarcastically.

“Very good! So…go ahead and make it.”

 

I take another breath, this one not as deep as I would like thanks to my cramped position, and consider my words _really fucking carefully._

“I’m sorry for not being mindful, Mistress,” I begin warily, “And for not respecting your office. I’ve brought you this offering, this tribute, and hope that you are pleased by it. I hope that this…this worthless pig can find some way to wipe away her offence.”

I wait, in utter silence as my words finish echoing in the small space. My cheeks are burning. _I hate her._ I hate the way that she makes me insult and demean and humiliate myself. At the same time, I’m also glad that I’m bent over like this so that she can’t see how utterly hard my nipples are. I’m pretty sure if I wasn’t resting my hips up on my feet I’d be leaving a stain on the fucking floor, I’m so wet.

“Four out of ten,” Satsuki muses, and a firm weight that is unmistakably her bare foot presses down atop my head, grinding my face into the floor.

You can probably guess how I know what her foot feels like by touch.

A moment later, she leans down to pluck the envelope from my hands, casually demonstrating a level of flexibility that makes my mouth water. Dear god, if I could get her into bed for five minutes I’d have about four minutes and fifty seconds left to apologize in.

I hear the sound of the envelope being opened, and sigh softly. I’m in the clear.

 

“Up,” she says firmly, lifting her foot from my head and slipping it back into her high heeled shoe, “Back into _seiza._ ”

I lift myself up as gracefully as possible and reassume the awkward _seiza_ position, my legs already hurting, though it can’t have been more than two minutes. She runs her hand through my hair- she likes my hair, and it’s often the only part of me she really touches affectionately, though she tugs on it painfully half-way through, putting me in my place in case I was getting any ideas.

“So…” she muses out loud, “How shall I abuse the disgusting tomboy this time? Should I spank her? Should I cane her? Should I flog her?” She walks around me in a slow circle, her heels rapping against the floor, and my breathing speeds up. She uses the tip of one heel to jab into the sole of my foot, forcing me to correct my posture with a muffled yelp. I can hear the sound of her ruffling through my cash, her tone bored.

“Or should I make you worship my feet again? You did so enjoy that. Perhaps you’d like to be shocked instead? Or would you rather me just walk all over you?” Her voice is a potent aphrodisiac to me and she knows it, her words slithering into my ears and making my arousal that much worse, “Or are you going to get off from me just abusing you like this with my voice, pig?” she broke off to laugh contemptuously, “Honestly, pig, do you have a single kink or fetish that isn’t utterly humiliating? Really, it must be so _embarrassing_ for you, only being able to get off to this kind of treatment!”

If I thought I was flushing before, boy was I wrong. My cheeks are scarlet and I can honestly almost feel tears in my eyes. I’m one of those people that sometimes cries when they’re angry, and I can feel it coming on now- the urge to scream at her and tell her she doesn’t know shit about me. But at the same time, I’m more turned on now than I’ve ever been- except for the last time I was here. It’s embarrassing enough to pay to have someone insult you. It’s totally, utterly fucking humiliating for them to be _right_ while they’re doing it.

“I’m sorry, Mistress.” That’s all I manage to mumble through my embarrassment. Satsuki chuckles again, and I hear the ruffling sound of money again.

“That’s quite alright, pig, I know you can’t help being an utter waste of-” her voice cuts off abruptly.

I freeze, knowing that the next thing out of her mouth can’t possibly be good.

 

“Ryuko…” she says, in that tone of voice that your mother uses when a neighbor mentions she saw you slipping out your bedroom window last night, “What is my rate for these sessions?”

My stomach twists itself into about a _billion_ knots, and it takes me a good ten seconds to be able to speak.

“It’s…f-forty-four thousand yen, Mistress.”

“Correct,” her voice says crisply, but I can hear anger, _real_ anger, not the play-pretend anger I’m used to, lurking under her polite exterior, “So how much should be in this envelope?”

“Forty-four thousand yen, Mistress.” I can barely speak, barely breathe.

“Well then, imagine my surprise to find _two_ ten-thousand yen notes, _two_ five-thousand yen notes, and _nine_ one-thousand yen notes. Which, if you’ll add up for me, comes to?”

My stomach can’t get any lower, or it’ll rip out through my hips. Honestly at this point, I wish it would.

“Thirty…Thirty-nine thousand yen, Mistress.”

“And is thirty-nine thousand yen equal to forty-four thousand yen, Ryuko?”

“No-”

 _“No, it’s not, is it!?”_ Satsuki’s voice is cold and furious, apparently taking my mistake as a very personal, very serious insult. My heart catches itself between stopping completely and hammering furiously and I taste bile at the back of my throat. Before I know what I’m doing, I sink down into the _Dogeza_ stance, my head hitting the floor hard enough to sting.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry Mistress!” I say quickly, begging her, babbling out my apology into the floor mat, “I counted it twice, but I must have miscounted, or dropped a note! I would never try and trick you, I swear!”

The silence that follows my words is like a gaping abyss. Sweat trickles into my eye and I blink it away, letting it drip onto the floor. My heart is going a mile a minute and I imagine Satsuki raising one of those elegant heels to stamp down on my head. Her voice, when she speaks, is very quiet.

“I believe you, I really do,” she says, her voice soft but still no less angry for that. My hopes take a few fluttering wingbeats.

“Which is why I’m going to wait here while you visit an ATM to bring me the rest of my fee.”

My hopes drop to the ground and are crushed by the twin weights of ‘reality’ and ‘poverty’.

My heart stops again. I rasp out a low moan.

“Well? Is there a problem, Ryuko?”

_Oh god, oh god, oh god, this is not happening._

I keep my head bowed, acting like if I stay down here long enough, the problem will just go away.

“Ryuko? I’m not going to repeat myself.”

_What can I say? What excuse can I give? I can’t lie to her, I can’t!_

I hear her take a frustrated breath, and fall back on my last resort. The truth.

“I…” I swallow roughly, “I don’t have the money.”

Satsuki’s breath catches in her throat. She takes a step back, off-balance.

Finally, she manages to find words to encompass her incredulity. Her hand grabs a handful of my hair and hauls me back up to a kneeling position before letting me go.

  _“What did you just say?”_

 

I’ve said it once, but it’s no easier to say again.

Admitting how crushingly, humiliatingly poor I am is almost _physically_ painful to me.

 

“I don’t have the money, Mistress.” I wince at how plaintive my voice sounds.

“Five thousand yen. You don’t have five thousand yen.” _Her_ voice is thick with disbelief.

“No Mistress, I’m sorry.”

_I think I’m going to cry. Or scream._

“If you don’t have five thousand yen, then how the hell did you get _this_ together!?”

I grit my teeth. I really don’t want to tell her that the sad little bundle of cash she’s holding is all the money I have in the world until my next payday, two weeks from now. But what choice do I have?

“That’s…that’s all the money I have.”

Satsuki actually laughs. She laughs at me, her bright, silvery laugh like a slap to my face.

“This? You expect me to believe that _this_ is all the money you have in the world?”

My cheeks flush in embarrassment.

“It’s true!” I growl, hurting at admitting it, and hurting more at being disbelieved.

“What, are you a NEET or something? Did you save up your pocket money to come here?”

God I wish her fucking insults weren’t so humiliating. The adrenaline rushing through my veins is doing nothing good for my libido, and I let out a little whining breath as she speaks.

“I…I have a job!” I shoot back, forgetting my training, “I work in a convenience store! I’m not some rich old salaryman!”

Satsuki actually pauses at that, and for a moment I think I’m going to get punished. Her next question is quieter, more thoughtful.

“How often do you get paid?”

“Every…every two weeks.” I admit, my head still bowed.

I can hear her doing the math in her head, muttering under her breath.

“-and minimum wage is…” she takes a moment to recall, giving away her social status, “Eight-hundred or so? But you must make a little more than that…say a forty-hour work week…”

Her head snaps up as she comes to the end of her logic chain.

“You don’t have any more money,” she says, realization in her voice, “You…really _don’t._ I mean, you barely make enough in two weeks to cover my whole fee!”

Her tone is one of utter shock. It must be novel for her, meeting someone who makes so much less than her, or those fat businessmen. She makes more in a two hour session than I do in two weeks, after all.

“How…how do you even pay rent!?” she asks, cocking her head at me. I flinch away from her, unable to meet her eyes.

“I have a roommate,” I admit, “She’s going to medical school.”

“But I mean,” Satsuki’s voice is so different now, her dominatrix persona put on hold by the realization of just what those few crumpled bills mean to me, “You’re…what are you going to eat!? What if you have to fix your car? How…” she trails off, utterly befuddled.

“Instant ramen,” I mumble, blushing again, “And I ride a bike mostly.”

“All that…so you can come see me?” Satsuki asks incredulously.

I nod weakly.

“I…uhh…yeah, I guess.”

 

The next thing she says catches me completely off guard.

“That’s…really quite sweet.”

I lift my head to gape at her, my mouth dropping open. As I do, I get my first proper look at her. Even though it’s only been about two weeks since I last saw her, the effect is just as potent.

 _She’s fucking jaw-dropping_.

First things first; Satsuki is _tall_. She’s maybe two inches taller than me, and then she wears big fucking heels on top of that, which makes her at least eight inches higher than me at all times. Second, she’s fucking _gorgeous._ I mean, _professional model_ pretty. Her hair is so black that the highlights are almost blue- she wears it loose and it falls down to her waist. I would pay her fucking fee, if I could, just to run my hands through it for an hour. Her eyes are bright and calculating, a deep blue that can be either icy or incendiary depending on her mood, and topped with the most luxurious fucking eyebrows I’ve ever seen, the same deep black as her hair. Her other features are sharp but delicate, and the smooth curve of her mouth offsets them to give her a kind of aristocratic smugness that’s so self-righteous that I want to smash my ego against it until one of us breaks.

Actually that’s not a bad description of our sessions.

Worse, she’s wearing what I can only describe as ‘lewd businesswear’. If corporate women dressed like her, efficiency would drop to nearly nothing overnight. Her blouse is just a little too tight, with two buttons undone, her jacket contoured to the lines of her body. Her skirt is too tight at the back, clinging to her hips in a way that makes me wonder how the _fuck_ she got it on, and it’s just _sliiiightly_ too short to be professional. Add a pair of silk stockings and a the aforementioned big heels, and there you have it- the reason I still haven’t said anything, even though her last words were about twenty seconds ago.

“W-what?” I say. _Like an idiot._

“I said it’s sweet,” she repeats, her mouth quirking into a perfect little smile, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m pissed as all hell. But it’s still sweet.”

I flush and look down again.

“I really did have it all together. I don’t know what happened.”

“I believe you,” she says mildly, “Unlike some of my other clients, five thousand yen is a lot of money to you.”

_Goddamn, why does that turn me on?_

I sit in silence, not sure if I’m about to be thrown out or not. My heart actually, physically hurts, both at the fact I had to admit my crushing lack of money and at the fact I’ve managed to piss off the most attractive woman I’ve ever met. Finally, I shift slightly.

“I’ll…I’ll go.” I mumble, “I’ll come back some…some other time, if you’ll still have me.”

“Wait.” Her voice is like a whip-crack and I freeze on the spot. “I didn’t tell you to move, Ryuko. Get back in your _seiza_ and damn well stay there until I decide what to do with you.”

 

I gulp and slump back down into my kneeling position. A second later she jabs her heel into my ankle, making me yelp in surprise and pull it in, angling it properly. In a strange way, it makes me feel better. She leaves me there to stew for a while, giving herself time to think. I sit very still, and for those brief minutes, my _seiza_ is absolutely fucking perfect. My thighs ache slightly, and I block the pain out. I am on my best fucking behavior from now until she makes a decision. No matter what. Her voice lifts me up out of my worries.

“I’ve decided…” she begins, trailing off, making sure she has my attention. She does.

_Oh god, this is it. She’s gonna kick my ass out. She’s gonna tell me she never wants to see my broke ass again._

“I’ve decided,” Satsuki says, this time in a sultry, amused voice, “That I’m going to overlook your _crushingly_ pathetic income.”

I open my eyes suddenly.

_Wait, what?_

“I can see you’re surprised,” Satsuki says, her tone mild, “You should be. It’s an amazingly tolerant decision on my part, I know.”

My mind reeling, I can do nothing but stare.

“I’ll overlook your poverty, just like I overlook your bad manners, your constant disobedience and your sloppy _seiza_ position” she continues, pausing to jab me sharply in the leg again. I straighten up, this time without yelping. I open my mouth to reply, but hesitate. Instead I dare to raise my eyes to hers, the unspoken request for permission to speak. She dips her head in a shallow nod.

“W-Why?” I ask. My voice comes out very dry, almost hoarse.

She smiles that devastatingly gorgeous smile again, and reaches down to me.

“Because you don’t kick a stray dog,” she whispers, her fingers ruffling through my hair affectionately.

 “You _train_ it.”

All the blood in my body rushes to one of two places. That is possibly the most humiliating comparison I’ve ever been given.

And if this stray dog had a tail, it’d be wagging. How fucked up am I?

 

“Thank you, Mistress.” I reply, in a bare whisper. What else is there to say?

She steps past me, out of my line of sight, and I hear her moving around behind me. I track her footsteps towards the corner of the room, and my breathing speeds up. There’s nothing over there but the flagellary. The click of the cabinet confirms my fears. My desires. Satsuki chuckles, as if reading the set of my shoulders.

“Yes, your favorite,” she mocks, “Lucky you.”

She stalks back towards me, and the first warning I get is the brief stirring of the air milliseconds before something slaps into my backside at Mach 2. I squeal girlishly and bite down on my lip, cutting myself off as a fierce pain flashes into being in the center of my left cheek, rippling outwards sensually.

I guess while I’m telling you this, I should mention something else.

I am a _huge_ fucking masochist.

So in the aftermath of that monumental slap, (seriously, did she take a fucking run up?) I shudder, and gasp – “Thank you Mistress, may I have another?”

She chuckles and strolls around me until I can see her again. She’s holding the implement of my correction, a beautiful leather tawse that flicks back and forth as she idly twists her wrist. A tawse, for those of you who don’t pay beautiful women to abuse them, is a wooden handle that has a long, twinned piece of leather attached to it. Sometimes it’s one piece slit in two down the middle, and sometimes it’s two pieces bound together at the base. This one is the latter, and instead of being thick like a belt, it curves beautifully down into a pair of sharp points, the better for a skilled dominant to apply it with. Satsuki notices my admiration and lifts the tawse for my inspection, flicking it idly against the curve of my breast with the very tip. I hiss out a breath in pain, but look closer.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” she asks, a note of teasing in her voice, “Fine mahogany handle, genuine cow leather. Really quite excellent stitching. Wasted on you of course.”

I grit my teeth. There’s the humiliation again. Nevertheless, I duck my head.

“Yes Mistress.”

“This is a real, quality tool. Using it on you is like serving champagne in a mug,” she muses, whipping my other breast with the same damn accuracy as before. I make a muffled whining sound that she ignores.

“Do you know,” she muses, “That this one toy costs about as much as you’re paying me?”

I look up, my eyes a little wide. She notes my reaction and lets out a delighted laugh that makes the embarrassment oh so worth it.

“Yes indeed, pig. So you’d better appreciate it,” she insists, taking a step back and flicking her wrist expertly so that the tawse slaps against my nipple. The yowling sound I make only encourages her, and she grants me a backhand too, that slaps against the top of my other breast as my body instinctively hunches to escape the pain. I straighten up, overriding the instinct, obeying the rules. She nods approvingly. This is merely a warm up for the abuse I’m hoping to get later.

“Honestly, it seems a shame to waste this on you. How much do you think its value has dropped, now that it’s touched you?” she asks, her tone cutting, “I’m not even sure _I_ want to touch it now. I feel like I should wear gloves.”

I lower my eyes slightly, and focus on controlling my breathing. This is how it is with us. This is how I want it. I can’t help myself, really. I relish the emotional pain as much as the physical, so she grants me one, then the other. Over and over again. Tearing me down while I beg for more.

Don’t think that she isn’t being cruel. She is. But at the same time…isn’t that what I’m paying her for?

I barely feel the next three or four strikes of the tawse, I’m so wrapped up in the emotional side of the pain, but I remember to thank her in the proper manner. Satsuki catches on to my signals, whether I realize I’m giving them or not, and switches tactics.

 

“It’s going to be a shame,” she muses, “Not being able to see you. I’ve been considering raising my rates.” I actually gasp and look up at her, horrified. She smiles down at me, pretending not to notice the hurt on my face.

“I wonder,” she purrs, “What you’ll do to be able to afford me?”

She runs a hand through my hair and tightens it into a fist, tugging my head left and right.

“Will you beg?” I nod.

“Will you steal?” God help me, I nod.

“Will you sell your precious bike?” I don’t even hesitate. If it means she’ll keep pulling my hair I’ll do almost anything. I nod vigorously. She smiles down at me in return.

“Will you sell _yourself_?” she asks, in the same tone of voice. My eyes widen and I hesitate. She raises an eyebrow and I shake my head. I can’t lie to her.

“Good,” she says softly, “I wouldn’t want you to. Besides, you’re not worth paying for,” she adds, almost as an afterthought, and tugs my hair backwards until I have to arch my whole body to keep it attached. Only when the agony threatens to become a clump of loose hair does she let go, leaving me panting and breathless, my scalp tingling in pain, the beginnings of tears in my eyes.

She stalks around me, plying that beautiful tawse, and I gasp and yelp and thank her in all the right places, but my mind is a million miles away. She showed me something about myself then, in that moment. And something of herself too. I didn’t know, until she asked, that I’d break the law for her. I didn’t know until she pressed, that I wouldn’t sell myself. I think…

I think that she planned those questions. To see how far my adoration went. I’m sure she doesn’t want a stalker, or a penniless client selling herself for money. I have no doubt that if I’d answered yes to that question, this session would be over already. A suddenly sharp strike of the tawse against my navel makes me squeal and snaps me from my reverie.

“Stop making that disgustingly upset face, I’m not _actually_ raising my rates,” Satsuki says, rolling her eyes, “Honestly.”

I try not to grin in relief.

“Well, I think I’m sufficiently warmed up, how about you?” she asks rhetorically, setting the tawse back in its place in her little cabinet of wonders, “I think it’s time we put aside these…lesser implements, and employ something more befitting your station. Or _lack_ of it.”

“Yes mistress,” I say, trying not to sound so enthusiastic. By the direct look she gives me, I’m not sure I’m succeeding. I can’t help it. This is what I came here for.

Satsuki steps to me and tangles one elegant, long-fingered hand in my hair, not stopping in her stride. Divining her intentions, I rise with her- mostly to avoid having my hair pulled out, and stumble backwards alongside her to the far side of the room. By the direction we’re moving, we can have only one destination. Her other hand touches my bare shoulder and she twists me in her grip, making me spin so that I trip and fall the last couple of steps. My face nearly slams into the oiled wooden frame of the St. Andrew’s cross, but Satsuki catches me by my hair and guides me that last little foot.

A St. Andrew’s cross is just a big ‘X’-shaped wooden cross, normally used for punishing submissives. This one is quickly becoming my favorite place in the world. Satsuki reaches up and guides my hands to the restraints- big leather cuffs that wrap and fasten securely around my wrists, then with deft motions, she fastens another set around my ankles. Thus secured, I won’t be able to do much more than twist my hips and push backwards. Though if I do that, there are more restraints she could apply.

“That’s a good position for you,” Satsuki muses, “I was getting sick of looking at your humiliated ‘o’-face.”

I can feel the heat in my cheeks as I lean into the wood of the cross. She never stops.

“Honestly, it’s embarrassing. You look like you can’t decide if you’re going to take a swing at me, or just cross your eyes and _come._ ”

This time I have to grit my teeth. _Holy shit,_ I didn’t realize I was _that_ obvious!

Satsuki’s touch is light and professional as she runs her fingers down the bare curve of my back. I shiver, both at the sensation of her touch and at the remembrance that I am stark fucking naked, and that she is completely clothed- a constant reminder of our differing stations in this room. She examines my skin for bruises or blemishes, for cuts or other irritations. She doesn’t find any, and I hear her hum in approval. I take good care of myself so that she won’t.

“The word?” she asks, her breath hot against my ear. I shiver.

“ _Senketsu._ ” I answer. She takes a step back.

I sigh softly, and close my eyes, like I’m about to sink into a warm bath.

 

Moments later, the sharp, biting kiss of a flogger slaps into my back, right between my shoulder blades. I hiss out a breath through clenched teeth, and shudder. Then the second blow hits me, right in the same spot. Then the flogging begins in earnest, and all I can do is marvel at her skill and shudder, my restraints making quiet, creaking noises as I tug against them. Pain washes through me, from the center of my back, down to the midpoint. Satsuki is utterly professional- she makes no sound, and the blows are all contained to the ‘safe’ areas of my anatomy. She strikes across my shoulders and my upper back, avoiding the lower back and the spine, and the soft flesh around my kidneys that I’ve read isn’t safe to hit. I’d be admiring her craftsmanship, really, if I wasn’t gasping and crying out, reveling in the pain that she’s giving me. She skips the no-go area and moves to my ass as well, which receives its fair share of punishment, turning it red with the same sadistic skill that she’s applied to the rest of my body.

And she doesn’t _stop_. The flogging just keeps coming, the sensations transmuting from the sudden shock of fresh pain through to the dull agony of repeated blows. The skin quickly becomes sensitive and pained, and each subsequent blow hurts more and more- exponentially more, until my face is pressed hard to the frame and each lash of the flogger’s tips makes me squeal hoarsely. Sweat trickles down my back, and I seem to lose track of myself. I live only for the rhythm of her wrist as it flicks back and forth, lashing pain up and down my back like she’s an artist, and my (no doubt reddening) back is her canvas.

The sudden emptiness of sensation when the lash doesn’t fall again is almost as disorienting as the blows themselves. I sway on my feet, leaning back but being caught by the restraints. Satsuki steps up to me and lets me down, ready to catch me if I fall. I think I surprise her by stepping down of my own free will, my legs shaking but steady. Sweat is just beginning to bead at my hairline and at a couple other place, and when my thighs brush as I step back I’m shocked to find myself _soaked_. Satsuki is looking at me as if I should be a puddle on the ground. Or like a misbehaving dog that sat up and started doing algebra.

“I have to admit, I’m a little impressed,” she says, folding her arms, dangling the flogger from her fingers, “I was expecting you to fall over, since you’re too stubborn to safeword.”

In the endorphin fueled haze that follows any good scourging, I forget my manners. I grin directly at her.

“Hey, I’m tough! I’m not some hairy-backed salaryman that cries at the sight of a whip!”

Satsuki’s face twists in what is either annoyance, or an attempt to hide a smile.

“No, you’re not. You’re intolerably rude,” she says sharply, and my heart skips a beat until she allows herself a small smile, “ _Almost_ … _Almost_ intolerably rude.”

 

Just when I think we might be having a moment here, she eyes me, raising one eyebrow in question.

“Ryuko? Why are you not in _seiza_ right now?” she asks, her tone letting me know she’s caught me breaking a rule. I flush, cursing inwardly, and don’t so much gracefully kneel as flop to the floor, arranging myself in what has to be the worst _seiza_ Satsuki has even seen. Thankfully, she’s not looking as she goes to replace the flogger in its cabinet. That done, she strolls over to her office desk and reaches down under it, and I hear the click of a hidden fridge door. She comes back holding one of those fancy glass bottles of spring water that costs about as much as a whole meal. I can see droplets of condensation beading around it, and my throat is suddenly _Sahara Desert_ dry.

Satsuki notes my condition, and makes sure I’m watching as she twists the cap off, raising it to her lips. She makes a small, audible sound of pleasure as she drinks, and my lust-addled brain files _that_ sound away for later…reference. My gaze is fixed, not just on the water, but on the motion of her throat as she swallows, on the exposed skin of her neck, on…on everything. She is _divine._

“There’s nothing I like so much as a cool, refreshing drink to take the taste of your rudeness out of my mouth.” Satsuki purrs, mocking me without so much as deigning to look my way, her steps taking her past me once more. I know better than to ask for a drink when I’m-

Something only just the north side of absolute-fucking-zero presses to my reddened backside and I let out a high-pitched squeal, my body wriggling upwards as I try to escape the sensation of utter _cold_ that flares painfully through my hips. The sensation is gone as soon as it has begun, and I shudder, dropping back into _seiza_ with a startled gasp, my breathing quick and heavy.

“Good girl,” Satsuki says from behind me, “You wriggled like a fish on a line, but you _did_ manage not to flop onto the floor and give yourself a concussion, so I suppose I can reward you.”

I lick my lips. My very dry lips.

“Thank you Mistress.”

“Would you like a drink?”

“Yes please, Mistress.” I say yes, and I mean it, but I’m waiting for the catch.

She steps back into my view, and for a moment all I can think about is how good that water is going to taste. Something drops down in front of me with a thud and a gentle chime of metal. I look down.

_And there it is. The fucking catch._

The object Satsuki has carefully dropped before me, is a dog bowl. For a dog.

Only this one has been inscribed with a contrary message, as instead of a name, it reads ‘Pig.’

I think I feel my ass get less red as all the blood there rushes to my cheeks.

Satsuki sinks down onto her knees in an act of such grace that my breath catches in my throat. Her _seiza_ is absolutely perfect, and she leans forward and begins to pour water into the dog bowl in a mocking imitation of a hostess, or a geisha. She pours with both hands, making the water splash but never spill. Once a measure of water is poured, she stops, affixes the cap once more, and ruffles a hand through my hair.

“Enjoy, pig.”

Did you know, it’s impossible to drink water out of a dog bowl in a way that isn’t upsettingly humiliating? I manage to drink, in a mixture of slurps and laps of my tongue, but I’m threatening angry tears by the time I’m finished. Satsuki watches me do it, her face impassive as she stands before me, her eyes sparkling.

 

When it seems like I have control of myself, she beckons me to rise with a crooked finger. I do, and her crooked finger leads me back towards the cross. I raise my eyebrows at that. So far I’ve never seen Satsuki repeat a tool in the sessions we’ve had. Nonetheless, I’m walked over to it, and I find myself being attached to it once more, this time facing her. She ties my ankles and my wrists with business like efficiency as she explains herself.

“I’m aware that, unlike many of my other clients, you’re a disgustingly huge masochist.”

I hiss, not in embarrassment, but in pain as the tight restrains force my injured back and buttocks up against the wooden frame. Satsuki rolls her eyes.

“Oh poor piggy,” she mocks, “Get over it.”

She steps back, and I come to the realization that being restrained facing forwards is much…much more embarrassing than the alternative. My legs are forcibly spread, and being naked in this position puts…pretty much everything on display. Satsuki’s eyes send ripples of goosebumps shivering over my bare skin, and as her eyes drift lower, I get redder.

Like I said before. I get…really wet, when I’m aroused. Not enough that I’m, y’know, dripping everywhere, but I _have_ needed to wash underwear on occasion. And on this occasion? I flush an enduring scarlet as her eyes trace over my exposed pussy, and linger on the glistening wetness across my inner thighs. Her smoldering gaze as she meets my eyes tells me that she missed nothing about the desperation of my appearance, and that she finds it as amusing as I do humiliating.

Not knowing what comes next, I wait, trying to regulate my breathing. She walks away from me for a few moments, and when she returns she has two things, one in each hand.

A scary looking black flogger, lighter and smaller than the one she used before, and my sad little wad of rumpled cash.

“We’re going to play a game now, pig,” she explains, holding the flogger under her armpit as she slowly counts out my money, straightening the bills out with her dexterous fingers until they’re all in line, all neat and tidy.

“This game is called, ‘Put your money where your mouth is’, pig.”

She lifts the wad of cash to my mouth with both hands, and holds it there.

“Open.” Her voice is curt, leaving no room for disobedience. I am what I am. I open my mouth.

She eases the bills into my mouth and gives me a _look._

“Shut.”

I do, this time hesitating slightly. I once read that money is the dirtiest thing that you’ll touch on a regular basis. But it’s Satsuki asking, so I clench my teeth down on the bills and try not to look too disgusted. She tugs it from side to side to make sure I’m holding it properly before she steps back.

“Well now pig, this is how we play the game. I flog you, and you get flogged.”

I feel myself start to grin. That’s my kinda game. But her next words stun me, and I nearly drop my mouth open in sheer surprise.

“Anything you drop, I keep,” she says softly, her gaze direct, “Anything you don’t, _you_ keep.”

My eyes go wide. Is Satsuki having mercy on me? No, wait, does she _want_ to see me again!?

 _Or_ , my pessimistic side chimes in, _she wants to set up a game that looks winnable so it hurts more when she makes us lose…_

It’s just like Satsuki. If I can hold out, I deserve to see her again because I had the resolve to try. And if I don’t hold out, I clearly don’t care enough about seeing her again.

Satsuki smiles, watching the revelation play across my face. Mind games are her _forte._

“Are we ready, pig?”

I nod, trying to center my mind, control my breathing. I am _not_ going to lose.

She flicks the flogger back, catching the ends in her fist- a clear sign that she’s not holding back.

_Wait, I can’t safeword with this crap in my mouth._

_Oh shit._

The flogger hits me, and I clench my teeth to keep hold of the money, letting out a hiss that ruffles through the bills. Satsuki whips the flogger back and forth with precise motions of her wrist, making sure that the tips don’t wrap around to bruise my ribs or my sides. She only wants to hurt me in the ways that leave me coming back for more. Even so, I can tell from the very first blow that this is _serious._ She doesn’t hold back this time, and she must work out, because every motion is perfect and balanced and formidably strong. She whips across my breasts with the power of her wrist and arm and shoulder, restraining herself to the point where I won’t be permanently damaged, but no further. The slapping hiss of the flogger across my body makes me writhe in my bonds, and each motion jars my already worked-over back and buttocks against the glossy wooden frame, making me hiss and gasp. Her flogger catches my nipple and I yelp, nearly dropping the bills. Satsuki senses victory and steps back a little, directing the next few strikes solely at the sensitive tips of my breasts. I clench my teeth and stare her down, my gaze flickering with each impact.

She feeds off my defiance, and I feed off her arrogance as our egos clash. She works her way down again, grazing the tips of the flogger over my gently muscled abs. I work out a lot, and my body-fat is pretty low. In another six months I might actually get some definition, but all it means now that there’s not a lot of padding to me. The flogging across my chest and stomach _hurts_. It hurts in a way I’m not used to, and soon my stomach is quivering as I writhe in the bonds, trying to turn left and right to avoid the strokes of the flogger. She corrects that by whipping the front of my thighs- a part of my body I can’t move or dodge with, and I’m yowling into the improvised gag by the time I settle down and let her do what she wants.

Then she flicks her wrist in a small circle, gentler than before, and brings the flogger up between my legs. There’s a slapping crack of lash against flesh, and I squeal through the cash stuffed into my mouth, my eyes wide. She keeps it up, a quick little spinning motion that slaps the flogger against my pussy rhythmically. The pain is accompanied by a jolt of pleasure with each contact, and soon I’m rocking my hips into the strikes, the pleasure growing to outweigh the pain, twinning with it like some kind of masochistic rocky-road ice cream. It’s only when I catch the desperate sounding moans I’m making through the wad of bills that I realize how _close_ I am.

_Holy shit, am I about to come from this!?_

Satsuki always could read me better than I could read myself. The _second_ I have that realization, the flogger darts away from me and flicks back into her fist, leaving my hips grinding and humping empty air desperately, my breath coming in harsh little pants.

“Mmm no. I don’t think so,” she says, as if considering it, “Not the way you’ve been behaving.”

_Me and my big mouth. Brain. Thoughts. Urgh._

 

When she starts again, the flogging gets worse. After a single strike from the flogger, my skin is tingly and painful. After two in the same spot, the tingling grows to actual pain. After three or four my skin turns red and the pain increases, widening out. After five or six a dull ache starts to layer itself under the pain. That’s where I am now, across the whole of my chest and stomach. I grit my teeth, because I know what comes next. The redness of my skin promises increased blood flow, which increases my sensitivity, which means that from now on each sadistic flick of Satsuki’s wrist is going to push over-sensitive agony against my self-control. She knows it too, and I can see a malicious smile curve the corner of her lips. I glare at her.

 _Bring it on, ‘Mistress’,_ I think furiously, _I won’t lose to you. I’ll show you what kind of submissive I am._

The bright, almost fey light in her eyes accepts my challenge, and the flogger comes down again. I start to lose track of time now, and I can hear the cuffs groaning as I strain against them with the full weight of my body. My teeth are clenched so hard that I feel like I’m going to bite through the wadded bills at any second, and my muscles are spazming randomly, my whole body shaking and shuddering like I’m experiencing a personal earthquake. Satsuki never lets up, her flogger slapping and smacking against my already battered body without slowing, though her hairline seems to be beading with sweat. I throw myself back and forth, my mind blurring as my body desperately tries to escape the constant _–slap slap slap-_ of the flogger’s rhythm against my breasts and stomach. I lose a little time, and when I’m back in my mind again, I’m crying- sobbing fat, ugly tears down my face.

_I won’t lose. I won’t lose. I won’t lose. I won’t I won’t I won’t-_

I can feel Satsuki’s blows faltering, becoming less metronomic, less utterly precise.

Now I’m inhuman- writhing and thrashing, my lungs forcing air out of my body in a long, guttural shriek through the muffling money and my gritted teeth- a shriek that only ends when I draw a sniffling, choking breath so that I can resume screaming.

_I won’t lose, I won’t lose, I won’t lose, Satsuki I’m going to- going to…_

 

I lose some more time, then. Quite a bit of it, in fact.

 

I shake my head, like a horse spooked by a fly, and flex my wrists. I realize after a few seconds that something has changed, and I look around dully. The blows have stopped. The flogging has stopped. I blink my eyes a couple of times as tears and sweat blur my vision. I feel like…I feel like the flogging stopped a little while ago, and I’ve only just realized. My chest heaves, though I’m no longer screaming. Instead I’m crying and drawing in big, hoarse lungfuls of air through the money that I still grip tightly in my teeth, letting the air out in the form of choked sobs and harsh breathing. I feel a slackening at my wrist, and look up to see Satsuki untying me, her face veiled by her hair. I drop my head, unable to support it anymore, and notice that she’s already untied my ankles.

The wrist bindings come free, and I don’t even have a thought about standing until I’m already falling into her arms. She catches me, and I shriek as her soft, finely made clothing burns like sandpaper against my skin. Satsuki guides me down, twisting me so that I fall gently onto my back. That hurts too, but in comparison to my front side, the back is a fluffy pain marshmallow- distant and soft.

I catch my own internal monologue then, and realize that my brain might not be working at a hundred percent.

I close my eyes and I concentrate on breathing. Breathing I can just about handle. The tears slow, and stop in their own time, but it’s only after another minute that I realize Satsuki is kneeling above me, calling my name. My eyes slide open and focus on her, until I feel a tugging sensation on the money still clenched between my teeth. I pull away, twisting my head and _growling_ at the intrusion, clenching my jaw tighter, until I hear my teeth grind. I catch my name again, and the blood rushing through my ears in a constant echo of my heartbeat recedes enough for me to understand her next words.

“Ryuko, _enough_! Are you there!? I give up, you stubborn girl! You win!”

I groan weakly, and open my mouth. She takes the money from it, and I’m left able to take shuddering breaths tinged with the gross aftertaste of the slightly grimy bills. I hiss and wriggle as a jolt of pain shoots across my left breast, but Satsuki’s voice is a cool, calm reproach from above me.

“Hold still. I need to help you.”

I reach around in my head for words, and find some. I throw them out without really looking at them.

“Wha-? What…what happened?”

“Unstoppable force meets immovable object.” Her voice is crisp, precise, restrained. I realize that she’s angry, as angry as she was before, and I go cold.

“I-I’m sorry!”

She blinks and looks down at me.

“Whatever for? Look what I did to you.”

I look down, or try to, but she has to use her other hand to support my neck.

 

My front, the whole front of my body, is _bright_ red. Stripes from the flogger go all the way from the tops of my breasts down to just below my navel. It looks as if someone tried to color my body in red pen, tracing from side to side, but ran out of ink before they could reach the lines. What’s more, there’s a cut- a shallow little graze, really, on the curve of my right breast. Satsuki is rubbing something into it that stings like actual hell- and when I say that, remember that my whole _body_ already stings really fucking bad, so I know what I’m talking about.

“You took our game very seriously,” Satsuki says softly, “You wouldn’t give in, even a little.”

I remember.

“O-Oh…yeah. I can be…competitive.”

“So I see,” Satsuki chuckles, “It’s a trait we share.”

“S-So what’s wrong?” I ask, seeing the tension in her jaw and around her eyes. She sighs and looks away from me for the first time I can recall.

“I went a little overboard. I got competitive when you wouldn’t give in and tried to make you drop the money, or safeword. I didn’t realize I’d lost the plot until my arm got tired and I misjudged a stroke.” Her fingers traced the line of darker red across my breast, maybe an inch long, “I cut you.”

“It’s nothin’” I murmur. She scowls down at me.

“It is _not_ nothing. It’s only when I cut you that I realized you were screaming into those damned bills. I should have stopped _long_ before things went that far.”

It’s only then that I realize that Satsuki isn’t angry at me. She’s angry at herself. She’s a perfectionist, mind, body and soul, and her lapse upsets her so much that even I have no trouble reading it on her face. The set of her jaw makes something twinge deep inside me, on a separate wavelength to the merely physical pain radiating from my body.

“Mistress?” I ask, catching her eye. She looks down at me, her expression softening a little.

“Yes, Ryuko?”

“Did I safeword?” I ask her, raising one eyebrow. She shakes her head softly.

“No, you didn’t.”

I give her a direct, open look, inviting her to see the life in my eyes, the deep, almost spiritual satisfaction that even now underlays the sharp agonies of my skin.

“So what’s the problem?” I say, boldly, surprising myself. She scowls again.

“I _hurt_ you, that’s the problem.”

“That’s what I pay you for,” I shoot back belligerently.

Satsuki huffs out a breath of surprised laughter, and ruffles her fingers through my sweaty hair.

“Impossible girl,” she says fondly, some of the tension draining from her, “Hold still. I’m going to put a band-aid on your cut. I only have plain blue ones, so if you want cartoons or Hello Kitty, you’ll have to buy your own.”

I chuckle weakly as she applies the band-aid, her fingers smoothing it down across my breast.

She gives me a once over look, then starts in on her questionnaire.

“How’s your head? Light headed?”

I check.

“Not really, Mistress. I’m fine.”

“Anything feel broken? Anything feel wrong?”

I check.

“Not really, Mistress, I’m really fine.”

Satsuki gives me a direct look. I flush and raise my hands.

“It’s really true! I’m _tough,_ Mistress!”

“Hmph. I suppose you might be, at that,” Satsuki grumbles, rummaging in what I now realize is a little white first-aid box, adorned with a little green cross. I’m getting my breath back now, and I pull myself into a sitting position, propping myself up on my hands. I hurt pretty much everywhere across my front, and my back and butt ache dully, but no worse than they usually do after a session. My front though, is a stinging frontier of pain. I can’t imagine putting a shirt on over it.

Satsuki lifts something out of the first-aid kit- a little white tub. My eyes widen.

“I don’t normally do this kind of service, but I feel responsible. _Seiza,_ ” she instructs, and I struggle up and, with Satsuki’s help manage to get myself into a loose _seiza_ position.

“Keep your legs spread, and don’t push your heels into your buttocks,” she adds, almost absent-mindedly. This altered position is perfect for displaying all the abused areas of my body while keeping them out of contact with anything that might rub against them, which I realize is exactly her intention as my eyes confirm my suspicions of what that little tub is.

_Oh god, I don’t think I can handle Satsuki rubbing lotion all over me. No fucking way._

 

Satsuki stalks around me and moments later I feel the lotions dripping down onto my back. Then her smooth fingers start massaging it into my back and shoulders, and I let out a hiss and lean back into her touch. It’s like a slippery massage, and I _immediately_ get the wrong kind of thoughts. A lewd image of Satsuki in a kind of Soapland show goes through my head, and I’m suddenly really glad she can’t see my face. Her hands slide down, tracing little circles with her thumbs in quick, efficient motions. I catch a whiff of her perfume, a soft, flowery aroma that mixes with the deeper, earthier smell of her sweat, her natural scent. My libido sits up and starts panting and wagging its tail.

I almost moan when her fingers dig into my ass, working the lotion in with all the dignified aplomb of a professional masseuse. I stifle myself down to a relieved groan that I hope isn’t noticeably aroused. All too soon, my backside is done, and Satsuki moves around me to my front once more, settling down into a _seiza_ position opposite me. I lick my lips, but a sudden touch of eye-contact from her warns me against moving, and against any thoughts of this being _anything_ but strictly professional aftercare. That damps my enthusiasm a little. At least until she dumps a little pile of lotion into one hand, smears it across the other, and takes both my breasts in her hands.

I bite down on a moan and try to ignore the way that my nipples harden immediately into two firm little nubs that grind against her palms as Satsuki smoothly massages the lotion across my stinging skin.

If you think the pain would curtail my enjoyment, you weren’t listening when I said _‘Masochist’._

That particular part is over all too soon, and Satsuki smears the lotion down my stomach, running her fingers in little circles that make me shiver, coming to a halt at my navel. Then come my thighs, one after the other, each one done quickly and expertly even though my breathing by this point is an embarrassing little whine. She leans back and wipes her hands clean on a little hand towel, giving me a smile.

“You’re done. Well, your lotion is done. By the sounds you’re making, you’re not _done_ in quite the way you want.”

 

Evidently the lotion has freed up all the red from my skin, because it flows directly to my cheeks and turns them bright scarlet. If I could speak, I’d say something, but seeing as I’d probably just moan breathily, I’ll shut the fuck up.

“Go sit in front of the couch. In _seiza,_ mind you.” Her tone is curt, businesslike. I try to bring up my internal clock, but given how I lost some time along the way, I have no idea how long of the session I have left. It can’t be long, I’m sure. Instead of worrying over it, I move to the big leather sofa and slump down into _seiza_ in front of it. Moments later, Satsuki joins me, sitting back with a sigh of relaxation, the leather crackling and creaking as she settles down.

“So,” she begins, “A mixed session for you. I’m pleased by your pathetically minute progress in etiquette and _seiza_. It’s clear you’ve been practicing.”

I nod my head. “Thank you, Mistress.”

“But-” she holds up a finger, “You need to be more mindful. It was a lack of mindfulness that spoiled your entrance, and no doubt a lack of mindfulness that caused your little…accounting error.”

I flush again, and nod my head deeper.

“Yes mistress. Sorry, Mistress.”

“But overall, you have some good improvements. And I’m impressed by your resolve. You matched me until the very end, and won our little game. I’m proud of you.”

This time my face flushes all the way down to my neck.

_Wow. I think I might cry. Why the fuck does that mean so much to me?_

Satsuki lifts something in her hand and shows it to me- an expensive looking silver watch with a leather strap. It shows the time, and my heart lurches as I see we’re pretty much done. She drops the watch, tossing it lightly aside. My attention distracted, I don’t notice that she’s abandoned her heels.

At least I don’t notice until she lifts one long, stocking-clad leg and presses a dainty looking foot right down into my face, covering my mouth and my nose with in. I groan delightedly at the soft, slightly musky scent.

_Look, if you don’t understand why this is so hot, I can’t explain it to you. It just is._

Satsuki’s voice is a quiet, pleased little chuckle.

“Your session has approximately _three_ minutes left,” she says, sliding her foot back and forth lightly on my face, “I hereby give you permission to masturbate in the time you have left.”

_Wait._

_What the fuck!?_

“ _Really, Mistress!?”_ I gasp, muffled by her foot, my voice the wondering tone of a kid having the word ‘Christmas’ explained to them for the first time.

She’s never done this before. Never so much as suggested I should do it, either here or at home.

“Yes, really, pig.” Satsuki says, almost audibly rolling her eyes, “Two minutes and forty-five seconds.”

My hand leaps between my thighs as if my pussy is on fire. I gasp into her foot as my fingers slide through utter wetness, my clit standing up like an achingly hard little bud that draws my fingers to it. I begin to grind my fingertips in slick little circles and within seconds it’s clear that I’m not going to need two more fucking minutes to come in. I groan and Satsuki presses her foot down harder, grinding it into my nose and mouth so that everything I breathe, I everything I smell, is _her._

Her scent is intoxicating, and I lose myself in it. My fingers are a lewd blur, and I can feel heat rising in the center of my hips, way down in the base of my stomach. I realize a moment later that I’m groaning, whining out pathetic little moans into the sole of Satsuki’s foot, practically drooling on her.

At this point I don’t care.

It’s just past the two minute mark when Satsuki speaks once more, her voice cracking like a whip.

“Stop.”

At first I think I’ve misheard her, but then I realize she’s serious. I pull my hand away with a force of will that seems god-like to my arousal-drunk senses.

Hercules has nothing on me.

Sisyphus watches in awe.

 _Somehow_ , I manage not to bring myself to climax right then and there.

Satsuki’s voice is a cruel, sadistic little murmur as she speaks.

“Good girl. I said you had permission to masturbate. I never mentioned permission to come. You may continue.”

My hand slaps right back down between my thighs, and I touch myself even faster than before, as if making up for lost time. I know this game. It’s one I’ve fantasized about pretty much constantly.

“Please, Mistress! Please may I come?!” I beg, groaning as she lowers her foot, only to replace it with its twin a moment later.

“No. Ninety seconds.”

I have to grunt pitifully into her foot and slow my pace to prevent a humiliating accident. God, I don’t think I’ve ever been this wet or this turned on in my life.

“Please! _Please!_ Please, Mistress, I’m going to go crazy!” I beg louder, the pressure of her foot increasing as she tries to muffle me.

“No. Have some self-control for once in your life, pig.”

“Please! Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease!”

“Sixty seconds, and the answer is still ‘no’.”

“Mistress please, please can I come for you?” I grunt, my eyes closed in utter frustration, my hand making lewd squishing noises as I masturbate furiously. If I wasn’t this wet, this level of roughness with myself would give me friction burn. As it is, I’m teetering precariously on the edge of orgasm, and have to slow down again.

“Tell me what you are,” Satsuki asks me, in a patronizing tone of voice. I don’t care. She can patronize me all she wants if there’s a climax at the end of this.

“I’m a pig, Mistress!” I gasp into her foot, my nostrils flaring as her scent starts sinking in to my fucking brain.

“Tell me who you belong to.” How does she keep her voice that cool?

“I-I belong to you, Mistress! I’m your pig!” I add, hopefully anticipating her next question. She chuckles at my obvious ploy, and at my desperation.

“You’re my pathetic little pig, that’s what you are.” Satsuki chuckles again, deeper, and wiggles her toes into my face. If I don’t come soon, I’m going to explode.

“Please! Please can I come, Mistress! I’m so close! I’ll do anything!”

“You’ll do anything? You promise?”

“I promise! I promise!”

 

“Promise me you’ll be a good little pig?”

_Oh I will. I’ll be the best little fucking pig you’ve ever seen._

“I’ll be a good little pig, I promise Mistress!”

 

“Promise me you’ll go home and take care of yourself?”

_I will treat my body like a fucking temple if you let me come, I swear to god._

“I promise, Mistress!”

 

“Promise me you’ll practice your seiza three times a day?”

_Fuck, I’ll practice my seiza five times a day and learn tea ceremony on top of that, just fucking let me come!_

“I promise, Mistress, please!”

 

Her foot’s weight disappears suddenly, and she takes a double handful of my hair, tugging me close, forcing me to look up into her face.

“Promise me you’ll use that money to schedule another session with me the instant your bruises have healed,” she demands, the words not a question, and only then do I see that her eyes are _burning_ with lust, just like mine.

“I swear it! I promise, Mistress!”

“Keep your eyes open. I want to see your face while you come.”

I nod frantically. Between my thighs, my fingers find my clit and grind down on it hard, harder than I’ve ever dared before, until pain mingles with pleasure in an intoxicating mix. I’m at the edge for her in an instant.

“Come, _pig._ ” Satsuki orders. I’m obeying before I can even phrase a response.

My back arches, my body shudders rhythmically, and I lift up out of _seiza_ and hump down on my fingers like a dog, bucking my hips. Her hands tighten in my hair, holding me steady as my legs nearly give out despite my kneeling posture, and the climax that rips through me is like fireworks, like the tide coming in, like _dying_ and being reborn again. All at once.

And through it all, I force my eyes to stay open, fixed on hers. Her starkly blue eyes glitter with sadistic, dominant pleasure, burning with lust as she watches me ride out my long-restrained orgasm for her viewing benefit. Her mouth is curled up into a small, wicked smile.

I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I’ll remember that face until the day I die.

And only in the midst of my orgasm do I realize how oblivious I am. I might be self-deprecating, but I’d never even considered until now…

Never considered that she might enjoy our sessions as much as I do.

I don’t know what she sees in my face, but her wicked smile widens into a grin. Her hands tug on my hair as I make gasping, choked little moans.

“That’s it, Ryuko,” she purrs, using my name to devastating effect, “Ride it out for me, that’s a good girl.”

It’s been at least twenty seconds, and I’m still coming, my shuddering form suspended only by her hands in my hair. My own hand moves jerkily between my legs, grinding my clit in time to the heated waves of tingling pleasure that echo out from my soaking cunt to set off fireworks behind my eyes.

I slump down, my face thumping into her lap.

Her laugh is the last thing I remember.

 

* * *

 

I hiss as I bring my t-shirt down over my top half, the soft cotton brushing painfully against the soreness of my back and chest. Satsuki chuckles and hands me my bra. I stuff it into the bag, unwilling even to consider putting it on. My skirt I step into and pull up, zipping it up with only two awkward catches and a muttered swearword. It only burns against my ass when I bend the wrong way, but I don’t know how walking is going to feel in it. My shoes and my socks go on next, while Satsuki watches me, leaning against the closed door to the exit. Despite all the fun we’ve had, not a hair on her head or stitch of her outfit is out of place.

_Totally unfair._

When I’m finished, she smiles at me and comes over, extending her hand. In it is the tub of lotion she used on me, and beneath it is my little envelope of cash. I open my mouth, but she presses a finger to my lips.

“Not a word, unless it’s ‘Thank you’,” she says firmly, “The lotion you’ll need, and you won the money fair and square. Not to mention you already promised to spend it on me.”

I shiver in remembered pleasure. _Oh yeah. I did promise, didn’t I?_

So meekly, I take the pair and shove them into my bag again, pulling it up and sitting it on my shoulder, which hurts about as much as I’d expected. Satsuki smiles at me, a strange look in her eyes.

“Go home and take a bath, then apply more lotion,” she says, sounding like a prescription notice, “You’ll bruise awfully over the next few days. There are a few herbal things that might help with that. Ask your roommate.”

“Yes Mistress,” I mumble.

“Gentle stretches, loose clothing and lotion- everyday, understand?”

“Yes Mistress,” I reiterate, giving her a look.

“Practice your _seiza_ like you promised, and be careful not to overexert yourself in the gym or at work, understand?”

“ _Yes Mistress!”_ I growl, exasperatedly. She chuckles. I make to move past her, but she holds up a hand. I glare at her, without any real heat.

“What now?” I ask, rolling my eyes. She reaches out that hand and taps my neck, where sits a collar of black leather adorned with the word ‘Pig’.

I go bright red, and splutter for a few seconds. She lets out a merry little laugh that makes my stomach do backflips, and steps closer, right into my personal space, her arms looping around my head so that she can undo the clasp.

“Here, let me,” she whispers, either not noticing the way I freeze with the scent of her brushing over me, or not caring.

I stand there with my hands raised as if in surrender, only halfway to the collar, while she undoes it and slips it from around my neck. I shiver slightly, the skin feeling somehow naked without it. Satsuki tosses the collar aside onto a chair and looks at me, still standing close enough that I can feel the amused breath she lets out.

“W-What?” I ask, oh-so-suavely. This time _she_ rolls her eyes at me.

Then she gives me a direct look, and in a mild voice, says –

“A hug would be acceptable, I believe?”

I flush. _Oh. Right._

I clumsily wrap my arms around her, hugging her lightly. She returns the gesture, looping her arms over mine despite our differing heights so that she doesn’t brush against my tender skin. The hug goes on for a while. Too long, in fact, to be just friendly. That’s fine by me.

“I’ll see you next time, Ryuko,” she whispers as we part. I can barely manage a reply, my heart is beating so hard.

“Y-Yeah. Next time.”

From outside, I hear the sound of car-horn. I raise my eyebrows, which makes Satsuki grin.

“I called you a cab.”

I splutter and thank her clumsily as she pushes me out the door, her face still set in that honest grin that makes leaving her so utterly difficult. The door closes behind me, and I stumble into the street- the fresh air somehow not as refreshing as the gentle scent of her closeness was, back inside. I slump into the backseat of the cab, giving my address with a weary sigh.

This is going to be a long two weeks.

 

 

In the silence that followed, Satsuki let out a long breath and stalked back into the playroom, back to her office desk, where she slumped heavily into her chair. Bringing her computer to life with a few quick keystrokes, she checked her schedule. No other appointments today.

 _Thank god,_ she thought to herself, feeling as if she’d run a marathon.

Taking a drink of her water, she clicked through folders until she found what she was looking for. She brought up ‘ _diary.doc’_ and stared at it for a few moments, composing her thoughts. Finally, she nodded.

 _Dear Diary,_ she typed, _I have a problem._

_I’m beginning to become addicted to submissive women._

_Well. A submissive woman. One utterly submissive woman in particular…_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, I had this in my head, and wanted to try out doing a first person POV for once. This is also a test for my future canon piece which will be actual Ryuko/Satsuki, and hardmode to boot.
> 
> Notes;  
> 1) I realized I'd not done any REALLY hard masochism, and needed to correct that. Yes, there's nothing wrong with not being into pain. Yes, there's nothing wrong with liking a little pain. But yes, there's also nothing wrong with wanting to be flogged until you can't stand <3  
> 2) This may or may not get continued depending if people like it and/or if I have the time and inclination to write more of it. We'll see!  
> 3) Her roommate is obviously Mako.   
> 4) Mataro took the 5000 yen. The little shit.  
> 5) Satsuki's other clients are mostly older gentlemen and salarymen. She's actually a lesbian (in this AU), so it's a purely financial transaction on her part.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it! View and kudos are much adored, comments are LOVED, and as always, thanks for reading!
> 
> P.S. I totally lost my job! So if you'd like to have something commissioned, or want to tip me money to buy food, check out my profile for details! <3


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